


Deep Water

by solar_celeste



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Fever, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Past Child Abuse, Pneumonia, Sicfic, i need to move south, i wrote this because im so freakin cold, screw cold weather
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-04
Updated: 2019-11-04
Packaged: 2021-01-23 05:46:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21315160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solar_celeste/pseuds/solar_celeste
Summary: Damian supposed he hadn't informed Father of his illness because he hadn't known how the man would have reacted, more like Mother or Richard?He hadn't wanted to find out.***Or where the baby bats a twerp who thinks he's invincible and hides his mcfrickin' pneumonia from everyone.
Relationships: Bruce Wayne & Damian Wayne, Cassandra Cain & Tim Drake & Dick Grayson & Jason Todd & Bruce Wayne & Damian Wayne, Damian Wayne & his family
Comments: 29
Kudos: 663
Collections: Its DC





	Deep Water

**Author's Note:**

> I think my laptop had an aneurism when I copied and pasted this.

Gotham was always cold. Throughout the entirety of the year it seemed that as soon as one would pass through the city’s boundaries, the temperature would drop by at least ten degrees. The spring brought cool rainy days, summer was breezy, and the fall was a repeat of the spring. 

As the year went on and the seasons rolled through, the temperatures dropped, the days became darker and nights seemed longer. A chill would spread city wide, a deep chill that burrowed into the bones. That drove people mad with discomfort. A chill that sometimes kept even the worst of Gotham’s villains huddled away in their warm lairs. 

Gotham’s heroic vigilantes enjoyed no such luxury.

They lacked that privilege, as long as crime still occurred they were needed in the field. Crime was never ending though, especially in Gotham and rest was no option. They were short staffed as it was, Red Robin and Blackbat were tied up with a case in Europe and Dick was kept busy in Bludhaven. Stephanie, of course, was with the two on the undercover mission. Red Hood was retaining radio silence but had been spotted in action near crime alley the night prior. Even so, Batman and Robin were left as Gotham’s primary vigilantes. 

November nights in Gotham gave no offer of warmth. The wind bit at exposed skin, frost and ice cold dew settling on every available surface once the sun dipped over the horizon. Sickness spread like a wildfire.

Their suits had long since been switched with ones made from a thicker material, wool lining stitched in carefully by Pennyworth’s experienced hands. Though the winter fabric did provide added warmth, it still wasn’t quite enough to quell the shivers that racked through the youngest Wayne’s body. 

Though it wasn’t something Damian would ever admit to aloud, he blamed his smaller stature and geographical background for his lower than average temperatures. He knew he was small for his age, shorter and leaner than the average eleven year old and therefore the cold spread throughout him faster than someone of his father or older brothers’ size. He was also aware that since the majority of his childhood had been spent in the much warmer deserts of Nanda Parbat, that his body was unused to having to regulate to the extreme cold. Even the deserts cool nights were no match to Gotham’s frisk air, and those had made him shiver. 

The disadvantage infuriated him, it was weakness. He had to take extra precautions, like carrying numerous heating packets to warm his fingers and toes, that the other members of his family did not have to. It sounded whiny and childish for him to say so, but it was _ completely unfair. _He didn’t want to always have to worry about acquiring a cold or slipping up and allowing his father to see the discomfort he experienced during Gotham’s harsh winters. That would risk his patrol, raising the possibility of Robin being benched. Even at home it was a battle fought with a dozen blankets and multiple layers of clothing. 

The home front battle was easier fought, as it didn’t take Damian long to learn just _ how _ much body heat a cat and a dog were capable of producing. (Especially when said dog was larger than Damian himself). 

It was only three weeks into October - and frankly, temperatures were nothing compared to Gotham’s winter months - when Damian could be found tucked into a corner of the great rooms couch, feet curled underneath him and more than one blanket spread across his lap. Somewhere among the pile there would be the lump of a small cat; a soft, neatly groomed tail protruding from the mess.

At night, when Damian assumed Pennyworth wasn’t aware (which was an asinine thought, Pennyworth knew _ everything _) he would allow Titus onto his bed, inviting the dog for warmth (and denied comfort). Unknowingly to the boy, his father had walked in on the sight on numerous occasions- there were pictures on the man’s mobile to prove it.

Still, even with his wholeheartedly attempted measures, Damian failed to achieve complete stealth and, one by one, the members of his family became witnesses to his struggle. He started to find an extra undershirt tucked into his clean pile of patrol clothing. There were warmer pajamas appearing in his drawers and Richard often ‘forgotten’ large sweatshirts around the house. Thicker lining was put into his boots and his cape made slightly heavier, though not too much to hinder his performance. There were more blankets on his bed, warm tea and heated milk offered on particularly cold nights.

It was rather obvious that they all knew, even an imbecile could come to that conclusion. 

Even though he knew that he should have, that he absolutely _ would have _if he was still with the League, Damian found himself not minding the discovery. The offered heat and overall thought was nice and sent a warm spark of something unidentifiable to his chest. 

Perhaps, and this was only a hypothesis based on Richard’s recountings, the feeling was a semblance of love.

Love was something that Damian was still unsure of. He hadn't had much experience with the subject and often tried to avoid it, since he wasn’t the biggest fan of uncharted territory. He knew there was love in the Wayne family, however. He could see it in the way his siblings would fret over one another and how his father would tense during fights. They cared for one another, and quite deeply so at that. 

And though his mother had told him that it was weakness to say such, practically drilled the notion into him, Damian had to admit that he cared for them as well.

Which was exactly why, when October came to a conclusion and November began - temperatures dropping with the passing of the months - he did not mention his persistent shivers. His family’s efforts most definitely helped, his frigid fingers not as numb with the cold as they had once been, he was still greatly uncomfortable. Still, he did not want them to think him ungrateful for mentioning his lack of warmth. He especially did not want them to end their efforts if they thought him to be rude. Damian still believed he was on thin ice with his family, still - _ somehow _ \- believing that they did not completely trust him. 

So he said nothing. 

Over time he grew used to the constant cold. It wore at his bones and caused his muscles to ache but, with some extra accommodations, it became another annoying aspect of life, something he just had to adapt to. Damian knew how to adapt. 

He placed heating packets in his already double lined boots and wore two of everything, socks, undershirts, pants, underwear, anything that could offer additional warmth. His father stopped fussing.

He should have kept fussing. 

***

“The operation is headed by Black Mask.” Bruce began, entering what Damian’s immature siblings had titled ‘Big Bad Bats mode’. “Their biggest shipment is set for delivery tonight at the docks.” 

Damian wanted to scoff, it seemed that Mask would _only_ ever operate at the docks. It also seemed the fool did not realize that Gotham’s wharf was on _constant _Batcave surveillance. It was second to Crime Alley when it came to the amount of prohibited activity that occurred there. 

“Leads?” Damian asked, securing his mask. 

“Reliable,” Batman replied. “The shipment should arrive in an hour, expect a rough estimate of two to three dozen men. Black Mask should be inside warehouse number four.” Damian nodded, pulling on his gloves.

“What type of shipment?” He asked, they had different protocols depending on whether the items were drugs or weapons.

“An arms deal,” Batman answered. “About a dozen crates.” Robin nodded, finally fully dressed. 

They made for the Bat-mobile. 

The air itself wasn’t the worst that it had been. There was a small breeze, cold wind nipping at Damian’s nose but, besides that, there was no rain and the base temperature couldn’t be below thirty eight. With all the layers he was sporting, the weather was rather easily manageable. 

They were staked on the edge of a warehouse rooftop, the lip of the roof providing a sufficient barrier for them to hide behind. They were early, by nearly an hour, but that was purposefully so. Often times, intel wouldn’t be completely accurate and something like an arms deal could happen an hour before or after what the Bats had predicted. Because of this, it was practically written into protocol that they were to always arrive early. 

It was a good thing that they had too, because not twenty minutes after they had arrived, the action started. It was nearly thirty minutes before their predicted time.

At first the change in scenery was hardly noticeable. The men that had been guarding the area continued to walk around, guns poised at the ready. Warehouse doors remained shut and Black Mask out of sight. The only real tell was the henchman directly below their hiding spot. 

He was repeatedly checking his watch. 

Batman and Robin became more alert, eyes trained on the sight below. A goon looking at the time most plausibly meant that the estimated time of arrival was nearing, or had perhaps passed. The fight would be starting momentarily, Damian could practically _ feel _ the adrenaline begin to course through him. 

The smallest cargo ship that Damian had ever seen appeared seemingly out of nowhere. Suddenly, it was pulled alongside one of the loading docks, a small electric cart parked close by for pick up. The men’s eyes were on the transaction, more focused on making sure the materials were properly cared for than looking out for any stray vigilantes. 

Robin scoffed, tutting under his breath. It was too easy, Black Mask and his men were getting sloppy. 

He jumped down before his father had the opportunity to command him, landing with a soft thud on the concrete, directly in front of one of the unsuspecting goons. Quickly, he knocked the man’s weapon from his unprepared hands, the gun clattering on the cement. Damian smirked, _ child's play. _

A well aimed kick to the man’s genitals and a perfectly timed uppercut left the man sputtering. Damian took the opening, using the moment the man was bent over to smash his elbow into the back of the lackeys skull. The blow rendered the goon unconscious almost immediately. 

Damian quickly prided himself, moving on to his next victim. 

Batman had also abandoned his previous hideout, slipping into the warehouse that Black Mask was predicted to be inhabiting. It sent a spark of pride through Damian, seeing that his father believed he was good enough to finally be left unsupervised. Perhaps Bruce was finally realizing that the fifth Robin was more than self sufficient. 

Damian turned his attention back to the trade on the docks. Most of the shipping containers had been transported from the boat to the cart and were being secured in place. Even though the weapons had made it farther than Damian would have preferred they have, his slight delay did give him an advantage. Most of Masks men were crowded around the cart, helping with the unloading process and oblivious to Robins presence. 

Damian kept his feet light and his breaths silent, sneaking up behind the man nearest to him. With the quick flash of his fingers, he squeezed a pressure point and rendered the goon unconscious, the man’s body fell with the gracefulness of a sack of potatoes. Damian couldn’t help the grin that resulted. 

What happens next was _ exactly _ why the boy always insisted to Grayson that there were no positive outcomes of smiling; Damian had been too caught up in his own victory to realize that two of the henchmen had disappeared during the fight. That the same too had been ignored for so long, that they had the opportunity to sneak up behind Damian and incapacitate him. It was foolish. It was weak. It was _ punishable. _

One of the henchmen had Damian’s small shoulder in a firm grip, twisting the joint behind the boys back uncomfortably. He couldn't help himself from crying out as his shoulder popped from the pressure and something _ very _solid connected with the back of his cranium, most probably the butt of a gun. 

There was a series of crashes in the warehouse, shouting between his father and Mask, Damian supposed. He could hear the harbor water lapping against the supporting columns of the dock and there was frantic conversation by the loading dock as the henchmen rushed to move the cart full of supplies. All the noise was immediately silenced by the ringing the blow to the head brought. Damian’s skull pulsed with pain. 

Black Mask’s goon used Robin’s moment of temporary weakness to his advantage, chucking the kid over this shoulder and _ sprinting. _ The harsh rhythm of the running jolting the small boy on each step. His head pulsed harder.

Damian squirmed, twisting and writhing in attempt to escape the man’s firm grip. There would be bruising all along him the next day, no doubt and aches to accompany them. 

In his moment of ruthless kicking, Damian caught a clear glimpse of docks, where in actuality, seemed to be the direction the buffoon carrying Damian was headed. The cart was nearing the end of the loading dock by now, preparing to turn right and transfer the goods to the awaiting trucks.

It angered Damian. This is _ exactly _ what father had sent him to _ prevent. _He needed to reassess, take a moment and figure out where he went wrong. Failure to complete a mission was unacceptable. 

To the left of the docks, there were two semi-trucks and three more of Masks goons. On the right, there was only one henchman but he carried a large, and most definitely armed, machine gun. Each lackey kept a small pistol tucked into the holster on their thighs. Robin needed to do this right or more than one person would end the night with a bullet lodged in them. 

Well, he supposed it made no sense to wait. 

Waiting for the right moment, Damian used the momentum from the man’s heavy running to drive his foot into the henchman’s ribs. Hearing the satisfying crack of steel toed boots on bone, he smirked. Melting perfectly into the Robin persona, he dislodged the man’s hold and pulled out a batarang to embed in his shoulder. The lackey howled, dropping Damian and, with no continued concerned about the young Robin, turned his attention to his new injury. 

Quickly, because his little stunt had attracted much unwanted attention, Damain swiveled and drove his elbow in another lowlife’s jaw, loosening teeth and dislocating the joint. 

The man with the machine gun charged at him next, running as he prepared to aim and fire. Damian ducked into a low crouch, swinging his leg out as the goon neared. He tripped, gun firing as he came into contact with the ground and the bullet, thankfully, missed its designated target. Robin kicked the gun away as he stood, stomping on the man’s outreached hand for good measure. Bones crunched beneath his boot and Damian visibly winced, his self control had greatly improved since he’d arrived in Gotham but often times he still found himself being just a _ little too _ violent. Still, the job had been done and the now clear path gave him a chance to intercept the still moving cart before it reached the transport trucks. He raced, arms pumping at his sides and the sound of rushing blood through his ears. That right then, the adrenaline of pure action, was exactly the kind of feeling Damian _ lived _for.

The driver of the cart saw Robin’s approach the minute it began, it was impossible not to in the open surroundings. Nonetheless, they both continued toward the other, the cart driver relying on the size of his vehicle and Robin, knowing better than to trust a machine. He was confident that there was no man made machine capable of beating him.

Just before collision, Damian leaped. His feet landed on the front hood of the car, startling the driver. The cart veered but Robin kept his balance, leaning in the opposite direction to keep steady. He clambered onto the roof, plopping down and leaning over the edge into the open doorway of the vehicle. The operator was looking directly at him, eyes wide with fear. It was obvious that the man was not a regular, perhaps a newbie.

Damian _ almost _ felt bad when he reached towards the driver, taking a fistful of the man’s uniform into his hand and pulling him from the moving cart. He slid into the now empty seat once the man had been properly dealt with and took the wheel into his own hands. 

Instead of turning right at the end of the loading dock, like the previous driver had been intending, Damian took a sharp left, away from the awaiting trucks. The turn had been made rather quickly and for a moment, Damian feared he was about to drive the cart straight into the harbor. Luckily, he regained control of the wheel just before tragedy. 

He allowed himself to breathe a moment too soon. The lackeys from before, the one who had carried him and the one with the gun, had returned for vengeance. They fumed, stumbling to their feet and hurriedly making their way to where Damian was directing the cart. They met him there, colliding with the side of the vehicle with an audible “Hmf!” and sending the cart careening. It tipped, wobbling on unsteady tires as Damian attempted to coax it back onto all fours with his weight and a harsh turn of the wheel.

If it had been any other member of his family, especially Todd or Father, their weight would have easily set the car straight. But Damian and his measly seventy nine pounds had little effect and the cart rolled, with Damian, into the frigid harbor.

The icy water hit him like a brick wall. Gotham’s harbor was dark and murky and it was difficult for Damian to distinguish up from down as he tumbled. Somehow, he was still attached to the cart and was sinking quickly with it. The light streaming in from above lessened as he floated deeper, the bubbles escaping from his mouth and nose climbing to the surface.

His hands grappled for something to hold onto, perhaps that would help him ground himself and gather his bearings. Even through his efforts, his fingers closed only on cold water, the liquid making its way into his gloves.

The water hit the exposed skin around his mask first, numbing the area with its coldness. His uniform provided temporary protection. Even so, their uniforms were made to be water resistant, better to protect them from rain and snow, but the material wasn’t meant to withstand submersion and Damian’s extra layers were hurriedly soaking through. The lenses in his mask, at least, allowed him to keep his eyes open and search for whatever was tethering him to the cart. 

His cape was growing heavier and it was becoming increasingly more difficult to keep himself from drifting deeper. He wondered briefly if he should attempt to trigger his emergency beacon but thought better of it when he considered how much time it would waste. Besides, Father was occupied with Black Mask.

After a moment of blindly searching, he found the problem. The cart’s seat belt had looped itself around his boot and tangled itself in his laces, which must have come undone sometime during the battle… or at least, he _ hoped _ they had come undone. He hated to think that he hadn’t tied them at all.

He shook his head at the distracting thoughts and searched for a batarang as he tried not to dwell on the risks of drowning or hypothermia. His lungs screamed for release as he hacked at the belt. If he could have untangled the laces, he would have just pulled his foot from the boot and left the article behind. That, however, wasn’t that case and he was finding the batarang difficult to keep hold of in the water. The already limited light was dimming further and the fire in his chest was distracting. His vision began to grow darker near the edges and if he didn’t hurry he knew it wouldn’t be long before he lost consciousness.

In one last final attempt at dislodging himself from the cart, his lungs spasmed and Damian couldn’t help himself from sucking in a large mouthful of harbor water. He reeled, nose involuntarily scrunching at the wretched taste as he attempted to spit it back out. He only succeeded in taking in another mouthful of water. 

He was about to give in, about to surrender to whatever horrible fate awaited him when something large and strong wrapped itself around his waist and hauled him up. At first, he thought it was one of Masks goons, perhaps one of the two from earlier back to make sure the job was finished. Then, he saw the familiar black gauntlet, the charcoal, kevlar covered arm and relaxed. 

He watched father free him from the cart but the man seemed to be a mile away. The touch was comforting, yet distant. Damian’s eyes were heavy but his body seemed lighter than it had ever felt. He didn’t particularly _ like _ the feeling but it was a million times better than the pure panic he had been experiencing before.

With weak fingers, he tried to hold onto fathers arm and, once he realized he was finally floating up, he let himself be pulled away and carried to safety. His eyes shutting and the darkness swaddling him in it's comforting embrace,

***

It was the smell that awoke him. The soothing odor of Pennyworth’s homemade soup: a lovely vegetable with a light broth. The second thing Damian noticed, was how incredibly cold his feet were. By the feel of it, he was wearing thick socks but even so, his toes were nearly numb. His fingers felt the same, though his face was hot.

Slowly, he opened his eyes, only to then immediately wince at the harsh lighting.

“Sorry, son.” Said a voice to his left as the lights were dimmed. Damian opened his eyes again, blinking to clear the sleep from them. 

To his left, he saw that the voice belonged to Father. The man was dressed casually, in grey sweatpants a black t-shirt. It was his usual sleep wear. Outside, Damian realized, it was still dark.

“How long-“ Damian attempted to ask before the sudden soreness in his throat brought along a bought of harsh coughs. 

“It’s 3:17.” Father informed him, handing the boy a glass of water. Damian took it and drank eagerly. “Small sips.” Bruce gently chastised. 

“What happened?” Damian asked, taking one last sip before handing the now empty glass back. He wasn’t sure if he really _ wanted _ to know what had happened.

“You nearly drowned. Your foot got caught in the seatbelt and we just about had to pump your stomach from how much salt water you had swallowed,” Bruce said, a faraway look on his face. “Your ankle is sprained,” he said, his voice softer but his expression turning angry. 

“I am sorry.” Damian mumbled under his breath, swallowing painfully. It hurt to speak. “I will perform better next time.” 

“Damian, son, that’s not-“ Bruce began, only to be cut off when Tim stopped in the open doorway. 

“We’ve got a lead on Mask,” He said and Damian’s stomach _ sunk. _ He had _ failed _ tonight, in practically every way possible. He had caused injury to himself, forced Father to save him instead of going after Mask _ and, _ on top of all of that, he had completely compromised the mission. He didn’t even _ want _ to begin to think about the coming punishments.

Father nodded, quietly excusing himself to follow Drake from the room. He paused momentarily to promise a quick “I’ll return soon” and then he was gone. 

For a while, Damian simply sat in the empty room twisting his hands in his lap and picking anxiously at this nails. Father hadn’t said much, a typical indicator of the man being angry. Damian, of course, was well aware that he screwed up but he hadn’t thought Father would be this _ furious- _ he was supposed to be different than Mother. Bruce Wayne was supposed to be loving and empathetic, he was known as a giver, he took in orphans and cared for them with all his heart.

Perhaps, Damian thought, love such as that was reserved only for Father’s _ chosen _children. 

Damian gripped his bedsheets in tight fists. The pressure behind his eyes threatened to further humiliate him and, before it could, he made to stand. He needed a distraction, something to take his mind off of Father’s incoming wrath. He decided to refill his water glass.

Standing up was a harder feat than he had imagined. At eleven, walking was a muscle reflex, easy and natural. However, when he attempted to pull himself to his feet, his legs nearly gave out beneath him. His body _ ached _ , his lungs rattling painfully against his ribs as he moved. That wasn’t _ normal. _Feeling cold and hot wasn’t normal either and Damian quickly pieced together that he had a fever. 

His hand curled into a fist, now he had yet _ another _weakness he had to try and keep from Father. If the man discovered he had fallen ill because of a mistake on patrol…

Damian winced, his leg threatening to give out as he was painfully reminded of his sprained ankle. _ Just great. _Even so, he pushed through the pain and hobbled towards his bathroom, snatching up the empty water glass on the way. 

His head spun as we walked, the room seemingly spinning around him. Dehydration, he supposed. It made since, he couldn’t remember the last refreshment he had drank. It must have been before patrol and that had been hours ago. 

He saw the steaming bowl of Pennyworth’s soup on his nightstand but had no desire to eat it. Sure, he loved the taste of it, as he did nearly all of Pennyworth’s cooking, but the mere thought of eating something made his nose scrunch in disgust. He wasn’t hungry but he wasn’t nauseous either, just _not_ _hungry. _There was no explanation and Damian didn’t care much for one. 

Water was enough. 

He was thirstier than he had thought, filling the glass and downing it before getting another to bring back to his bed. It was a process, walking to and from while his ankle throbbed painfully. Father was aware of the sprain, he new and no doubtebly, Damian would be suspended from patrol. If not for the sprain, than for his obvious failure. 

Still, that didn’t seem to bother Damian as much as he new it probably should. Instead, as he prepared himself for a long week of masking his symptoms, he found himself focusing on another obvious fact:

Father hadn’t returned. 

***

Bruce wasn’t as much of an imbecile as Damian had hoped him to be. It became obvious, over the course of the week, that Damian had acquired some sort of sickness from his impromptu dip in the harbor. 

The boys breathing had changed, now more shallow than usual and he lost his breath quicker than he typically did. His clothing was often damp with perspiration and Alfred reported that the boy had been shoving sweat soaked bedding down his laundry shoot. Since Damian was always wearing numerous layers, it was obvious it was from fever and not overheating. When he thought no one was looking, he stifled his coughs the best that he could. 

When the weight loss became evident, Bruce thought it high time to intervene. 

It was just after dinner, four days post their failed patrol, when Bruce found Damian seated on one of the great room’s couches, swaddled in his usual mass of blankets. He walked slightly heavier as he approached, alerting the boy of his presence. He really would have done this much sooner if it hadn’t taken him so long to trace Mask and take down his new HQ. Not that he blamed that on Robin, of course.

As he caught sight of the man, Damian shifted slightly, bleary eyes peering up at his father

“Good evening, Father,” he greeted, his voice softer- _ weaker _ than usual. 

“Good evening to you too, Damian,” Bruce reciprocated. “I wanted to talk to you about something.” 

Damian stiffened at that. They had not yet discussed his repercussions for his botched patrol and he wasn’t nervous about what this conversation was sure to hold. It would be different than Mother, surely. Mother was full of harsh whips and bloody beatings, harsher lessons and an increased amount of sneak attacks. Father was different, he preferred harsh words, groundings and disappointed looks. 

Damian could never decide which hurt worse.

“Yes, Father?” He asked, doing his best to mask his anxiety.

“I thought we were beginning to understand one another.” 

… _ what? _

“I’m sorry? I don’t understand.” 

“Damian… son,” Bruce sighed, scrubbing a tired hand through his hair. It seemed to Damian as if the man had aged a decade in the last ten seconds. “Why didn’t you tell somebody that you weren’t feeling good?” 

Damian’s eyes widened, his heart skipped a beat. This was _ so _much worse than he had initially thought. Now Father new was ill as well…

“I am almost better, I _ will _ be better,” Damian promised, even as his voice wavered with uncertainty. If anything, he felt like he was growing _ worse. _

“Son,” Bruce sighed once more, “that’s not what I'm I mean. I’m trying to say it’s _ okay _ to admit your not at your best.” 

“My ankle is nearly healed,” he assured Father, “I will be able to patrol again this weekend.” 

“No, Damian,” Bruce said, firmer this time. “I know your sick and tomorrow I’m taking you to Leslie to see just _ how _sick.” Damian looked down, eyes anywhere but his father. “I’m just sad you felt like you couldn’t tell me yourself.” 

Damian looked up quickly, but immediately diverged his faze once he saw the disappointment and sadness etched into Father’s features. He bit his lip, the pressure behind his eyes building. 

“Your not in trouble,” Bruce added, “and I’m not angry with you, not at all.” All Damian could force himself to do was nod.

“Get some sleep son,” Father said, patting Damian’s thigh and rising from the couch.

Damian did not receive much sleep that night.

_ He was gagged, strapped to a chair with his hands behind his back. The room was pitch black, absolutely no light and no sound allowed in. He had no blindfold because there was no need for one. He recognized the room instantly, it was one from his childhood, one of his mother's favorite places for challenges. His sight was useless, as was his hearing, the only thing he had to rely on was his touch. _

_ He wiggled his hands, testing the binds. They were tight, as was expected, but not impossible to break out of. He could do this, he had _ trained _ for this. _

_ He pointed his fingers and tucked his thumb to his palm, making his hands as narrow as possible. _

_ It confused Damian, that he was able to shimmy his hand out. It seemed too easy. Too careless of his mother to allow such a quick escape. _

_ He was wary of traps as he headed for the door, he knew where it was by memory. His mother had utilized this room many times before, on numerous training sessions. Most were headed by no warning, such as this one, and, for others, Damian has been blindfolded until arrival. _

_ The door was locked and Damian cursed himself for not thinking that sooner. Of _ course _ the door would be locked, he was sure of this). _

_ It's not until he was attempting to pick the lock with a chiseled rock that things went bad. There was a rushing sound and then splattering, like liquid on stone. He turned even though he knew that he wouldn't be able to see, there is no light to allow it. Still he searched blindly, not finding the source of the noise until he could feel the water seeping into his shoes. _

_ The room was being filled. _

_ He knew he needed to work faster, to keep calm and not panic since that would only extend the process. Still, for some odd reason he could not help the racing of his heart. It is as if he had suddenly developed a phobia of water. He no longer wanted anything to do with the challenge. He wanted _ out. _ And not by account of his own success, he wanted _help. 

_ But this is the League, there would be no help. _

_ Damian knew this. _

_ Instead he screamed, voice catching in his throat as he watched the water levels rise. He was terrified, driven absolutely mad by the liquid and he didn’t know _ why. _ Couldn't remember any reason he would be. _

_ The water was high now, rising above his head and for a moment, an absolutely terrifying moment, he was _ gurgling_. Coughing and spitting out liquid, desperate for just _ one _ breath of air- _

He bolted to a sitting position, choking out chest rattling coughs into his elbow. Tears fell from his eyes, his chest heaved as he attempted to pull in air that just didn’t want to come. 

He was still in the Great Room, he realized. He must have fallen asleep there after his talk with Father and _ god, _why was it so cold in there? The fire that had been heating the large, open room earlier in the night had long since died out. It was mostly dark, except for a dim glow from the nightlight in the kitchen. The shadows that melted along the furniture and walls worsened Damian’s anxiety, causing his already overworked heart to beat just that much faster. 

He clawed at his chest again. The combination of fighting for air and his rapidly pumping heart was beginning to _ hurt _ even if it was only really in his imagination. The shadows seemed to be creeping towards him, whispering to one another and laughing at his weakness. Damian wasn’t even _ trying _ to be subtle about his struggle, he was only focused on trying to take in even just a _ little air. _

He felt the need to cough, but didn’t have the breath to do so. He needed to clear mucus and phlegm from his throat, it having had built while he slept. He had been coughing and hacking it into toilet bowls and tissues all week. It had been the only thing that he could do to his ease his breathing. 

Now it seemed, it was different. There was the same aching pain that he had felt all those times before but now the need had increased tenfold, become that much more urgent, that much more _ desperate. _

From where he was seated, Damian was able to see the hallway at the top of the staircase. It seemed so far away, like it would take a million years and endless climbing for him to reach the wing to the bedrooms. In retrospect, it normally wouldn’t have even taken him five minutes to reach his father’s room from where he was then. 

He looked around him instead, searching for an object that he could throw to alert someone of his need. He didn’t care much anymore about putting on his strong facade, all he knew was that it _ hurt_. That it hurt _ so _ bad and all he wanted was Richard or Pennyworth or Todd or even _ Drake. _ That he _ really _ wanted- _ needed _his father. 

He found a cup, one that had been filled with blessedly hot tea before he had fallen asleep, and reached for it. It hurt his chest, to stretch as he had to, seemed to ache in the same way it did when he bruised his ribs, but he was able to grab it, sighing as his fingers finally closed on his purchase.

Then he promptly chucked the antique, which was most definitely priceless, onto the hardwood floor.

It shattered on impact, pieces of china and drops of cooled tea splattering every which way. Damain winced, quickly hoped Pennyworth wouldn’t be too cross with him, and trained his ears for any signs of rescue. 

It was silent for a moment, terrifyingly so. He was worried that the sound hadn’t been loud enough to wake his father. Though… Father was a light sleeper, perhaps he just didn’t _ want _ to come, perhaps he didn’t care if-

Titus barked. 

Somewhere upstairs Titus barked _ again. _A rarely heard sound that annoyed Damian more times than not sounded absolutely _ beautiful _to his ears. The frantic footsteps that followed sounded like the soft violin track Damian often fell asleep to. Soothing and comforting, all encompassing. 

He wheezed again as he watched the hall light flicker on. His nostrils flared with the effort, his stomach rising though there was no air to cause it do so.

Well, logically, Damian knew that he was receiving _ some _ air. But it wasn’t _ enough. _It hadn’t been enough for the last four days and he was so, so tired of it. He wanted to stop the dehydration headache that came as a result of his not eating. He wanted to eat and to train and to go back on patrol. He didn’t want to worry about hiding his illness from his father or from Richard, who was visiting that coming weekend.

No.

He just wanted to fall into the first deep sleep he’s had in days and wake up feeling some semblance of _ normal. _

The footsteps were closer now, rounding the couch with a set of paws right at the heels. Damian nearly cried from the relief. He stared at Father, too thankful that the man had come to worry about how he would handle the situation, whether he would act more like Mother or Richard. Perhaps it was because Damian did not know that answer, that he had kept this illness to himself for all this time. 

Father seemed to be more like Richard, Damian was realizing. Earlier in the night the man had assured him that he wasn’t upset Damian was ill, but rather _ sad _ that the boy _ hadn’t _alerted him. Now, Bruce’s eyes were wide with obvious concern for his son. His hands were outstretched, put not threateningly so. They were reaching for Damian, as if to pull him into an embrace. Instead though, he pressed gently on Damian’s shoulders, laying the boy back down. He placed one of the couches flatter throws pillowed beneath his sons head and smoothed down his hair.

“Slow breaths, Damian.” He instructed. “Slow, son. Your okay, you’re going to be okay.” Bruce promised, whispering reassuringly as he continued to lace his fingers through Damian’s baby-soft hair. Titus watched from a bit away, his muzzle resting on the couches arm. If Damian listened hard enough, he thought he could hear Pennyworth on the phone. 

“You’re burning up.” Bruce informed once Damian had gotten a hold on his breathing. It still hurt, but at least he no longer felt as if he was about to suffocate. As if on cue, Pennyworth entered the room with a small thermometer in hand.

“Here you are, sir.” He said, presenting it to Bruce. 

“Thanks, Alfred.” Bruce said. “Open.”

“Damian did, lifting his tongue to make room. He had only done this once before, when Richard had been caring for him and Father had been… elsewhere.

After a moment of allowing the thermometer to get a reading, the object was pulled from Damian’s lips. 

“Alfred,” Bruce said, “call Leslie back, tell her to be ready for us.”

“What is it, Father?” Damian asked once Pennyworth had left for the phone once again. His voice came out as weak whisper. 

“104.1.”

That, Damian knew, was a dangerous temperature for someone of his age and size. Coupled with how little liquid he had been drinking, how much food he had been up to eating and how terrible of a time breathing he had been having, he could confidently guess that he had a grueling case of pneumonia. 

“We’re going to see Thompkins?” Damian asked, Father had set the thermometer on the table and was moving to grab Damian’s sweater from where it lay strewn across an arm chair.

“Yes.” The man said, looking at how small the sweater seemed to be in his large hands. “Here, put this on,” he said, pulling the garment over the boy’s head and helping him guide his arms through. 

Damian shivered, though the two both knew that the room wasn’t cold. 

It was humiliating, that Damian wasn’t able to stand on his own. Granted, Father hadn’t given him the chance, just picked him up (blankets and all) before he could protest, but even if he had let the boy stand on his own Damian could tell just by the ache in ihs bones that he would not make it. 

It worried Bruce how light the boy felt. He knew Damian was lighter than he should be (leaner than the average eleven year old) but even from the few times he had lifted the boy before this, he could tell he was much lighter now. How much weight could one lose in four days time anyhow? 

They made their way to the car, Bruce tucking them both into the back seat as Pennyworth sat himself behind the wheel. Damian’s skin was like fire, uncomfortable to Bruce’s regulated temperature, like he had laid a heating pad on his lap and left it on too long. Still, he held the boy close, whispering soft reassurances, telling him that he was going to be okay soon and that Dick was coming as fast as he could. If Damian listened to any of it, he gave no sign of it. 

It seemed that the child became _ less _responsive as they neared the clinic. Damian was barely moving in Bruce’s gentle hold, not shifting or burying himself deeper into his mess of blankets as he had been doing before. His breathing was far too shallow for Bruce’s comfort and his eyes had been shut nearly the entire ride. It was alarming, Bruce had never seen a child so sick before and he hoped with all his heart that he would never have to again.

Leslie was waiting for them outside when they pulled up to the clinic. It was more secluded than Gotham General Hospital and the privacy promised to keep them out of the limelight at least until they were able to leave. Besides, Leslie was a much trusted family friend of the Waynes and most importantly, she was well aware of _ both _ sides of their lives and could be told the real reason why Damian was so ill.

Bruce nearly jumped from the car, Damian jostling slightly in his arms. 

“Come on.” Leslie ushered them, frowning when she caught sight of Damian’s too limp body. She rushed them through the front waiting area, where a few families sat (though Bruce couldn’t find it in him to feel bad for stepping in front of them, his baby could be _ dying _here) and down the hall to one of the more sophisticated rooms. 

Immediately, she motioned for Bruce to lay Damian on the bed and strip the boy before she herself began to prepare an IV for fluids, Alfred assisted without being prompted, readying a nasal cannula for the smallest Wayne. Bruce was too frantic to do much else than clip a heart rate monitor onto Damian’s miniscule finger, clasping the boys hand in his once he had done so.

Leslie moved onto a cool compress next, wringing it out and placing it onto Damian’s forehead and now bare chest. She had given Bruce a _ look _ when he had been removing all the boy’s layers, all that clothing hadn’t been doing anything to ease Damian’s fever and they were both well aware of the fact. Bruce just hadn’t been able to deny the boy that momentary warmth. 

Now though, he was cursing himself for his actions. If he had only addressed the obvious sooner, taken his head out of that cursed cowl for just _ one damn moment, _ perhaps… maybe then his son wouldn’t be in a hospital bed. 

*** 

Clarity wasn’t all that clear at first.

There were voices. Male and female and laced with concern. They varied in age but most sounded younger, young adults if Damian had to guess. He shifted, something tickling the back of his ear as he did so, something on his finger shifted. 

He tried to peel his eyes open, he wanted to know what was so rudely invading his space but he fell back into the darkness before he was given the chance.

***

There was warmth wrapped around his hand, the one without the attached intruder. It was comforting yet strong, all encompassing.

Damian never wanted it to go away. 

*** 

The third time Damian regained consciousness, he was more alert than he had been in a long time. His eyes blinked open slowly, long, dark eyelashes fluttering to reveal sleepy orbs. The warmth was gone, but the voices were still there. Peering around he saw his family. Every single one of his adopted siblings was jammed into the fairly small room. Cassandra was curled along the bottom of the bed, where Damian’s feet didn’t reach. Father was slouched in a chair to the left of Damian’s headboard, apparently asleep. Richard was seating on the floor, head resting tiredly in his hands. Todd and Drake talked quietly in the corner. 

Damian’s heart clenched, he hated to think that _ he _ had done this too all of them. That they had torn themselves apart worrying about something as mundane as his inane illness. It wasn’t worth their stress. _ He _ wasn’t worth their stress. Even if he _ wanted _ this, even if their presence and concern brought a welcomed warmth to his chest, Damian knew didn’t _ deserve _this.

The changing speed of the heart rate monitor alerted them of his consciousness. Cassandra arose first, lifting her head from where it had been rested against the bed sheet. 

“Hello, little brother,” she said, a small smile graced her lips as she rested a comforting hand on his foot. 

Todd and Drake took notice after that, both stopping whatever discussion they had been having and turning their attention to the youngest Robin.

“Morning, kiddo.” Todd said. “Nice of you to finally join us.” Drake simply stared at Damian like he was a miracle.

Dick nearly leapt to his feet after that, so surprised and almost… _ scared? _ Nevertheless, he hurried over to his baby brother, scooping the boy up in the most gentle embrace that he could manage. “We almost lost you, Dami,” he whispered, voice thick with the onslaught of tears. “_I _almost lost you.” 

And wait- _ what? _

“Damian,” Father breathed, now more awake than ever. 

“You gave the old man a few good heart attacks,” Todd explained. “Scared the rest of us shitless too.”

“You almost _ died, _Demon,” Drake said, finally finding his voice. “You nearly burnt to a crisp from the inside out.” 

So Damian had almost been killed by a childhood case of pneumonia. He had almost died of fever and become just another statistic on some fading waiting room chart.

“Why didn’t you tell us?” Bruce asked. His eyes were sad, his lips curled downwards into a frown. 

“I…” Damian started. He supposed he hadn’t said anything because he had been _ naive_. He didn’t know how illness was treated under Father’s roof was frankly, was _ scared _to know.

“It’s okay to ask for help, Dami.” Dick promised, though Damian _ knew _ that when it came to _ Richard_. He just hadn’t known if that would change when it was Father instead.

“I want you to tell us these things, son,” Bruce assured. “We all want to be able to help you but you need to tell us what's wrong first.” Todd nodded.

“You’re not in the league anymore, kid.” Everyone else nodded along in silent agreement. 

“Love you.” Cassandra said.

“We _ all _love you,” Dick amended as he squeezed the boy that much tighter. Bruce got up and came to sit on the cot, pulling the small boy into his side. 

“You have no idea how much.” 

**Author's Note:**

> This was a long one folks, a real long one. 
> 
> And I was so determined to finish it that I made the really smart and mature decision of waiting to do all my assignments. Hehe. Also the fire alarm has been going off in my room for the last thirty minutes but I was in the zone. 
> 
> Comments, kudos and constructive criticism are my coffee {just don't mention how I failed at Whumptober :)}
> 
> Yell at me on tumblr @solarcelest


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